"Oh, it's--horrid, horrid, horrid! It's a long story. Finish your tea first, then I'll tell you. I'm _so_ miserable!" "Poor old girl!" Cecil said kindly, and helped herself to bread and butter. Claire had a miserable conviction that her reply had had a deceptive effect, and that the shock when it came, would be all the more severe. Nevertheless, she was thankful for the reprieve; thankful to see Cecil eat sandwiches with honest enjoyment, until the last one had disappeared from the plate. "Well!" Cecil pushed aside her cup, and rested an arm on the table. "Let's get to business. I promised mother I'd catch the six o'clock train back. What's it all about? Some young squire wanting to marry you, and you want my advice? Take him, my dear! You won't always be young and beautiful!" Claire shook her head. "Nothing about me. I wouldn't have worried you in the holidays, if--if it hadn't been for your own sake..." The red flowed into Cecil's cheeks, her face hardened, the tone of her voice was icy cold. "_My_ sake? I don't understand. I am not aware that you have any responsibility about my affairs!" "Cecil, I have! I must have. We have lived together. I have loved you--" Mary Rhodes waved aside the protestations with impatient scorn. "Don't be sentimental, please! You are not one of the girls. If it's the money, and you are in a hurry to be repaid--" "I'm not. I'm not! I don't care if you _never_ pay..." Tears of distress rose in Claire's eyes, she caught her breath and cried in a choking sob. "Cecil, it's about--him! I've found out something. I've seen him... Only last night..." "I thought you might meet as his camp was so near. Suppose you did! What was so terribly alarming in that?" "You haven't heard? He hasn't been to see you, or written, or wired, to-day?" "He has not. Why should he? Don't be hysterical, Claire. If you have anything to say, say it, and let me hear. What have you `found out' about Major Carew?" "He's--_not_ Major Carew!" Claire cried desperately. "He has deceived you, Cecil, and pretended to be ... to be something quite different from what he really is. There _is_ a real Major Carew, and his name is Frank, and he has a home in Surrey, and an invalid father--everything that he told you was true, only--he is not the man! Oh, Cecil, how shall I tell you? It's so dreadfully, dreadfully hard. He knew all about the real Major Carew, and could get hold of photographs to show you, because he--he is his servant, Cecil--his soldier servant... He was with him in camp!" Cecil rose from her chair, and went over to the empty fireplace, standing with her back to her companion. She spoke no word, and Claire struggled on painfully with her explanations.